


Not Today

by Kefalion



Series: The Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Season 4 [14]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 18th Century Aristocracy AU, M/M, QLFC, Vampire AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 14:41:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9128134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kefalion/pseuds/Kefalion
Summary: It's the winter season. Parliament is in session and everyone of import is in London. Harry has joined them for the first time. He doesn't want to be part of any scandal, but the choice might not be his.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the First Round of the Finals of the Fourth Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as Beater 1 for The Wimbourne Wasps.
> 
> Name of round: OTP chaining
> 
> We're going to focus on your writing technique and team coordination to kick off the finals. The theme this round is literary devices and techniques that many writers use to make their stories more exciting and engaging and to give English teachers something to analyse the crap out of.
> 
> I'm posting as Player 6, meaning that I am required to use a metaphor and an example of foreshadowing in my story; I also have to write about littlebluespacemoth's OTP, which is Drarry (Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter).
> 
> These were the prompts I'm using to block our opponents, the Wigtown Wanderers:
> 
> 4\. (song) 'Not Today' by Imagine Dragons  
> 9\. (creature) Vampire  
> 15\. (word) dawn
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created; it's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.
> 
> 18th century aristocracy AU. No magic, but vampires.
> 
> Thank you for betaing Ellen, Xanda and Sophie! Surely you know you're my heroes? Buzz, buzz!

Many eyes were directed at him; he felt their gazes, weighing heavy even though they were stripping him bare. Their eyes were curious, calculating, criticising, all the better to make him feel like a simple farmhand stinking of the stables, rather than a young lord dressed in finery.

It had not been Harry's idea to join London society for the winter season. He did not consider himself ready to have the nation's lords and ladies judge his every move in an attempt to assess whether he might be a suitable match for their daughters. His aunt and uncle were fully to blame for exposing him to the aristocracy. Mr and Mrs Dursley cared neither for Harry's wants nor his future, but they cared greatly about how they could benefit from his name, reputation, and standing. They were wealthy from success in the trading business, but their money was recently made and most members of the aristocracy would not give the nouveau riche the time of day. A connection to an old family, however, made some willing to bend the rules, and so the Dursley's exploited Harry as best they could.

While his aunt Petunia only cared to see Harry's cousin Dudley engaged with a girl from a noble house, his uncle Vernon was determined to set Harry up with a young lady as well. Preferably a _very_ young lady, so that they could benefit from the connection begot by the engagement while keeping Harry and his properties under their control for as long as possible.

Harry wanted no part in it. If he were to marry, he wished it to be for the same reasons his father had; Harry wanted to find someone he could love, regardless of what walk of life she came from. Perhaps his views were unorthodox and would lead to scandal if they became known, but it did not matter to him. All of his friends were simple folk, and both the servants and his tutors liked him far better than his family ever had. He knew that genuine people were worth more than any estate.

After the day's presentation of debutantes was over, Harry fled his uncle's domineering presence and the coy looks sent to him by the maidens. His head spun from the impressions of all the young women. They didn't seem real. They were neither like the cook's daughter, with her freckled skin and loud laughter, nor anything like the outspoken daughter of Doctor Granger. They were birds of paradise: tittering, colourful, every gesture carefully studied, and their mothers were merciless wolves prepared to tear any man apart to provide for their cubs. Still they surrounded him, their hair piled high atop their heads, endowed with ribbons and feathers, their dresses spreading out like flower petals around their slim bodies, silks whispering delicately as they moved. They whispered and giggled and blushed fancifully if they noticed him looking.

Everything gleamed and glistened in the light of a thousand candles. The smell of food, alcohol and fine perfumes lay cloyingly heavy in the air, suffocating him. He would have escaped outside had he his outer clothes to stave off the winter cold. Now, he was only endeavouring to locate an isolated alcove in which he might be allowed to catch his breath in peace.

Wishing to dull his senses as he hunted for a refuge, Harry found a glass and filled it with red wine, drinking it all in one gulp and filling it again. The drink was sour and rich and made the world tilt. He moved, searching for an area of darkness and quiet. Finding a heavy drapery, he let out a long sigh of relief. As he went inside, he misstepped and the contents of his glass sloshed out, staining white cloth and white skin. Someone was already there.

"I am terribly sorry," said Harry, wondering what to do with his hands. He should find something with which to remove the stain, but the battle was lost; the liquid was soaking into silver white brocade. He looked up at the face belonging to the unfortunate victim of his clumsiness and met light grey eyes. The man had the palest complexion Harry had ever seen, made all the more striking for the contrast against the wine. The drink was staining his chin, neck and front, as well as a curl of his wig.

The man's mouth twisted in displeasure as he wiped his face with a kerchief, but the words that spilled from it in a drawl contradicted the expression: "It is no matter. It is hardly the worst my attire has been put through." He paused, looking closer at Harry. "You are Harry Potter, are you not?"

"I… yes, I am."

"Many people are curious about you, your Lordship. The return of the vanished son of the Esteemed Baron of Hallowford is the greatest event of the season. They've been waiting to sink their teeth into you ever since it became known that you would attend."

"Are you among the ones wishing to sink their teeth into me?" Harry cleared his throat, wondering about how bold he'd been, and added a questioning, "Sir?"

"Draco Malfoy, oldest son and heir apparent of the Viscount of Wiltshire. A pleasure," said the pale man with a quick bow of his head. "And yes, I do admit to harbouring some," his drawl slowed down to a near pause, "curiosity about you."

"I assure you, I am no one of interest. I'm just Harry."

Malfoy hummed. "Is that so?" He stretched out a hand—the skin of his fingers was as pale as that of his neck—and held the drapery aside. "They appear to think differently." Everyone in the vicinity was outright staring in their direction, and only slowly did they look away. "If you're quite as dull as you claim, we should devise a scandal for them."

"No!" said Harry forcefully, and the people who'd turned away their gazes looked back. "No," he said, quieter. He mustn't be part of any scandal, not before he came of age and could be free of the Dursleys, or they would make his life hell.

"You are right," said Malfoy, letting the drapery drop back into place, "you are dull. How very disappointing. Are you nothing but your father's name and a pretty face?" Harry's face heated up. Never before had a man called him pretty. "No reply? Then I believe I shall have to take my search for a scandal elsewhere." Malfoy tilted his head slightly. "Unless I can change your mind?"

"Not today."

"A challenge? I accept. I will be seeing you, your Lordship." His mouth spread open in a smirk filled with sparkling teeth. The look of him made something quiver in Harry's stomach. Malfoy disappeared into the crowd, the swaying drapery blocking him from view. Harry found purchase against the wall. The room was spinning worse than ever. A smell of something sweet and fresh lingered in his nose, something that made him want to rush after Malfoy and say yes to outraging their peers, if only so that he might see that smile again. He held himself back, blaming the wine for the outcome of the encounter and his complete loss of his senses.

-o-

Malfoy made good on his promise. He found Harry again and again over the following weeks. Harry always refused to wilfully cause a scandal; however, he listened with pleasure as Malfoy expanded on every previous and budding scandal he knew about. He had a way with words, especially with vicious ones, and if his words weren't enough to enthral, the way his face livened up as he spoke was enough to bewitch any unwitting person allowed to witness it.

Harry's refusal didn't matter, though. One memorable evening, Aunt Petunia cornered him in outrage, letting him know that being seen in young Malfoy's presence regularly was scandalous enough. He was known to seduce women _and men_ alike, ruining their reputations. Tongues were now wagging, speaking ill of the Dursleys on account of Harry. She forbade him from seeing Malfoy again, and cursed him for a fool that should never have been born.

-o-

The next time Harry saw Malfoy, they were at a smaller gathering. The house it was held in was vast, but the guests were scarce. It allowed for unprecedented privacy and was ideal for what Harry intended. "Why were you behind that tapestry the night we met?" he asked.

"Good evening to you too, and I could ask you the same thing, Potter. Why were you going behind that tapestry?"

"Were you there with someone?"

"Did you see anyone there? I know your eyes are weak, but surely, you saw that I was alone."

Harry let out a small frustrated sound through his nose. "Was anyone there with you earlier?"

"And if that was the case? Why would it matter to you?"

"As your friend-"

"Are we friends, Harry?" Malfoy walked closer to him. His eyes were strangely bright. His cheeks could be mistaken for flushed.

"I believe so."

"A friend would not be jealous of anyone I might have entertained away from prying eyes."

"I am not jealous."

"No?"

"No."

Malfoy reached out a hand and trailed a finger down Harry's cheek; though it was cold, it left a trail of fire in its wake. "I can hear your breathing growing loud with my proximity. I see your cheeks filling with blood. I've observed the indifference with which you regard the ladies and how you enjoy my company. Have I read you wrong? Is my touch not welcome?"

"I-" Harry's breathing stuttered. He'd held out the hope that his aunt had only relayed unfounded slander. Here was the evidence that her words were true. "Were you with someone?" he pressed, pulling away.

"It was not what you're imagining."

"So there was someone?"

Malfoy pressed his lips together and did not answer.

"Tell me the truth!"

"Do not ask that of me. I cannot give it to you."

"Then your touch isn't welcome, and neither is your company. You may find your other _friend_ to entertain you. Good night."

"Harry!"

Harry pretended that he'd not heard Draco calling.

-o-

Harry avoided Malfoy after that. He would often see him in the crowd, and would always steer the other way, dragging his new acquaintances with him. His aunt was as pleased as could be expected by his efforts, but there was little comfort to gain from that.

Although Harry had only known Malfoy for a short time, he found himself feeling bereft at the loss of his company. His sleeping hours were filled with visions of pale skin and grey eyes. He thought of Malfoy when awake too. Jealous was a word that was beginning to feel more and more appropriate, even though it made him uneasy. The emotions he was harbouring were ones he shouldn't have for a man. They were feelings and urges that ought to be reserved for a good woman with whom he had been united in holy matrimony. Longing for the same with a man was sinful and doomed to bring him suffering.

The winter season was coming to an end. Parliament was closing and final celebrations were imminent. They would return home to Hallowford until possibly convening in Bath in the summer. He would have no opportunity to see Malfoy until then.

-o-

Parliament had closed. It was the last day everyone of importance would remain. The festivities were set to go on all day and all night.

"Will you come to Bath, Harry?" asked Ernest Macmillan.

"It depends entirely on my family's wishes," replied Harry.

"Surely they will want to join rather than hiding away in the west. Now that you've had a taste of our company, you shall surely miss it."

"Or maybe you wish to do as the Malfoys and escape us for the summer," said Theodore Nott.

"What do you mean?" Harry's heart began to beat harder. He shouldn't react so strongly to the news, but his body cared not for rational thought.

"They always travel abroad over the summers. Social suicide, my father always says, though not within the Viscount's hearing."

"Abroad?"

"France, mostly, I believe. The West Indies one year."

"I have a cousin who's been to Spanish Town. He says the climate is quite agreeable if you can stand the humidity. I say it's nothing we British don't know about."

Harry twitched as someone touched his elbow. "Come with me," said Pansy Parkinson, one of Draco Malfoy's friends. "They won't miss you."

He went with her. "What do you wish of me?"

"What Nott said is true. Viscount and Lady Malfoy travel for most of the year; Draco goes with them. If you do not speak with him now, you will not have opportunity to do so for a long time."

"Perfect," he said.

"You're hurting him."

"That is not my intention."

Her bosom heaved as she held herself back from saying something impolite. "But you will not change anything. I see. Perhaps it is for the best that he forgets you." She swept away, skirts ruffling, shoes clicking against the floor.

-o-

The night went on. Harry spent it brimming with inner turmoil. He did not know what he should do. It was not until he was faced with not seeing Draco, even if it was at a distance, that he had to admit that he regretted everything he'd done in the name of propriety. He ought to apologize to Draco for demanding an answer he was not willing to give. Surely it had been nothing important he meant to hide.

Dawn was approaching when he made his decision. Malfoy, however, was nowhere to be found.

"He retired," said Theodore Nott. "He should be at their town house if you wish to speak to him later. I would not suggest trying before nightfall, however."

Waiting was not in the question. Harry went out, found a carriage, and was off. All he had to do to be let inside upon arrival was give his name. He was bid to stay in the saloon while the butler fetched the young lord. Harry did not obey. He went up the stairs, the sound of his shoes muffled by a thick carpet. All windows were covered by heavy drapes, yet flickering candles lit the way.

A door had been left ajar. He saw Draco. His wig was gone. His hair was as pale as it had been, as near white as the rest of him. Beautiful. However, as Harry watched, the butler came into view, and Draco touched his lips to his neck. A dagger stabbed Harry in the heart. He took a step back.

Draco opened his eyes. They widened as he saw Harry there. He retracted his mouth. Something red trickled down his chin. When his lips parted, his canines were too long to be natural. _It was not what you're imagining._ No, it was worse. Unnatural. A being sustained by blood.

Vampire.

Harry's ears were ringing. He turned and ran down the stairs. He heard his name called out. The carriage was gone, but the first rays of sunlight were touching the snow on the street setting it aflame. Dawn had come. It should keep him safe from this being of darkness that had beguiled him.

He heard another cry behind him. It was not his name. It was a cry of wordless pain.

Harry turned around. Draco was on his knees in the snow, screaming. His pale, pale skin was turning ashen gray in the sun, flaking and being carried away in the light breeze.

Harry could not witness it, could not allow it to happen. He rushed back, grabbed Draco and hauled him inside, slamming the door. They fell to the floor. The burning had not stopped, and the marble smoothness of Draco's skin did not return.

"I'm sorry," Draco said. "I did not wish for you to know this."

"You're not a deviant," said Harry. "The people you've seduced, you've fed from them."

"Yes."

"Was I to be your next victim?"

"No. Yes. At first I... But no. You're different. You've always been. I wanted so much more from you than your blood. Friendship. Love. A life together. Now... now I have to ask for it all."

"Why?"

"I'm dying. The sun. I need blood."

"Your butler-"

"Will not do. Only you. Only someone I've taken into my heart. It will bind us together. I will never be able to feed from anyone else again." He looked away. "I'm sorry that I have to ask this of you."

Harry couldn't let Draco die. He had come because he had decided that if loving a man damned him, so be it. This was no different. Damned he was either way. This could not be the end. Draco had known what would happen when he ran out after Harry, and he had done so anyway.

Harry extended his wrist.

The piercing of his skin by sharp teeth stung. The pulling at his blood tugged through his entire body. It was unpleasant.

Draco regained his healthy appearance. He drew out his kerchief and bound Harry's wrist tightly, stopping the blood flow. "Thank you," he said in a near whisper.

Harry said nothing. He sat by Draco's side, his head spinning once more; this time it was from the loss of blood. Draco touched his cheek, turning his head so that they looked each other in the eyes.

"There is something between us. You know it, or you would not have come here. If we allow it, it can turn to love, and everything will be easier. It must become easier, but if you one day regret this and wish for freedom, I will let you have it."

"You would die."

"Yes."

"Not today."

"No." Draco smiled. "Not today."

**Author's Note:**

> A/N 31st December 2016
> 
> I can't believe that this is the first Drarry I've ever written (well completed). It's been a long time coming. I've read quite a bit of 19th century literature these past months, I think I channeled some of that style into this—for better or for worse. I hope you enjoyed it; I'd love to know what you thought. Good, bad, and anything in between.


End file.
